


Sacred Heart

by daynight



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, self indulgent romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes wishes are granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Heart

The muggy heat of the bayou is comfortably oppressive, like a family embrace. He loves it. He doesn’t think he could ever stand seeing snow again, he sees it enough behind his eyes in the night.

It’s been one long year since he’d set foot on American soil once more. One long year, or one short one, it’s both floated endlessly and rushed by him. A hazy, jumbled dream. It doesn’t feel real. He’s constantly afraid that his miraculous return is an illusion, a deception or an extended imagination. He’s really crouched in the frosty white forest, winding his rosary around his shaking, frozen fist or, god forbid, these are the restless hallucinations of a prone body lying stone still in a hospital bed.

He can’t let himself get too introspective, that’s the easiest way to fall. He works steadily, sees his old kin, reintegrates. He tries not to give himself breathing room. It’s better not to think right now.

On the porch after a long hard day under the sweltering sun, he kicks off his dusty work boots and lights a cigarette.  Stretching out, legs extended, he exhales and begins to rifle through his mail. Some bills, something from Heffron, whom he keeps regular correspondence with. A small package from his mother, who lives nearby but he doesn’t visit nearly as much as he probably should. She worries about him.

Cigarette lodged in the side of his mouth, he rips open the brown paper impatiently. A note, deploring him to visit once more and to look after himself. He sighs and scrubs his forehead.  Some handkerchiefs, a gift, and a bar of chocolate. Crushing his cigarette, he looks at it for a while and lets the foil package start to go even softer in the heat of his hands.

Foolish, so foolish to send chocolate in this weather. That woman must be losing her mind. It’s almost liquid when he rips open the foil and it smears everywhere and clings to the package like sludge. He licks his finger. It tastes the same. Cruelly coincidental.

He finishes the chocolate out on the porch, staring aimlessly into the swampy surroundings. Heaving his creaking bones off the porch step, he washes his hands, changes, and sits at the little wooden table in his kitchen to write a reply to his mother. He thanks her and punctuates the note with an insincere promise to visit as soon as he can. He licks an envelope and seals it. Then, possessed by some ghost of a feeling and against his rational judgment, he starts to write another.

‘Cher Monsieur ou Madame,’ A surname subtly discovered during the aftermath in Austria, before the whole thing began to truly lie on him, stifling with overwhelming sadness, the regret finally fading in when the adrenalin of victory ebbs away. A couple of lines, very bare, speaking in inelegant terms of immeasurable gratitude and remorse. An unworthy and pitiable tribute, addressed to Bastogne.

 

* * *

 

About a month later, defying expectations completely, he receives a reply. Staring at the yellowed envelope in disbelief, he almost feels angry. He wasn’t looking for anything in return, any polite correspondence or continued dialogue. He doesn’t want it. What he did was an insane, unthinking attempt to express what he owed, to somehow repay even a little of the unprecedented kindness that had not only healed so many of his comrades in complete adversity but had saved his mind and ultimately his life in the earth’s most wretched hours. Her kin, whoever they were, had nothing left, suffered like the town they called home. He did not deserve their words. Not one line. In all honestly, he didn’t really deserve this life that he has maintained, not while she still lay in the church where she surrendered everything. It was a disgrace and a cruel irony that god felt him fit to survive.

Hands shaking like they never used to when he wore a cross on his arm, he opens the letter. A pretty script that shames his backwoods scrawl, surprisingly a mix of both French and English in language.

‘ _Cher_ Eugene,

Your letter was not expected but highly appreciated and perhaps not deserved.’ 

A pause, that shook him.

‘I am _très heureux_ that God has kept you alive and has returned you home. _Peut-être qu'il entend les prières après tout._  I hope you will not be too _alarmé_ , but my father saw fit to pass this letter to me. _Je peux comprendre_ why you would have assumed as much, as I have only recently been discharged from the hospital, but _je ne suis pas morte._ God took pity, although I deeply regret that I have lived when so many _dans l'église_ did not. _Reposez en paix_. I think of my patients I could not save every day.

Just as before, your words are _trop gentil_. I am partly ashamed.  _Je espère que vous allez bien._ Sorry I have no _chocolat_ to send, we are short of some luxuries here.

With thanks and best wishes,

Renee Lamaire.’

* * *

 

Eugene Roe sat back down on the porch steps, ears ringing and reeling like he’d been hit with a shell.

It was shallow, and stupid and so painfully timed, but he did vividly remember thinking that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, standing in the arch of the door, harried and concerned. She was exhausted, run down, tireless, with long hair, plainly dressed. Her hands, caked in blood, held such power. Nice smile too, as she called out his name in lilting tones, throwing him a bar of chocolate, singling him out. He heard that they had called her the Angel of Bastogne. He imagined many of the men in that church-hospital were in love with her.

Before the bombings truly choked the last breath out of the town, he had allowed himself to wildly entertain thoughts of her. It was embarrassing and inappropriate but impossibly appealing as he sat in the deadly cold snow of the Bois Jacques, fiddling with the edge of the chocolate bar, inhaling its scent. It was nothing disrespectful, sweet innocent follies, and he didn’t share it. For one, he tried to keep his distance from the banter of his company (never get too attached) and he would never do such a lady the dishonour. No one knew about Renee, he selfishly preferred it that way, keeping their brief but meaningful interchanges to himself. He wondered what she would look like happy, dressed up out of her bloodstained nurses clothes with a carefree smile on her face. Surely more beautiful than any of the women they ever saw in London or Paris. Not flashy, a quiet and gentle kind of beauty. Did she have someone who loved her? He hoped they were good. If not, would she let him take her out if the war was over? If she said no, he wouldn’t bother her but he hoped maybe she might. She had smiled, asked him his name, about his home and at the crucial moment when everything was caving in, whether he was okay. He’d daydream about telling her she’d never have to take the burden of caring for another dying man again with those healing hands, that he would look after her. There was the chocolate too, he would never forget that.

After he saw Bastogne in rubble and flames and took her plain blue headscarf from among the destroyed remnants of the church, he felt whatever he had been kindling turn to ash.  Her death meant more than his broken heart. She was so much more than that. She wasn’t just a woman; she was a symbol and a nurse who was so diligent and devoted to helping the men that she inspired complete devotion. Her death had meant a complete loss of hope. At least, he had thought, he did not misuse her gifts. Her chocolate, given to Heffron to bring him out of the saddest moments of self-hatred, after he had witnessed the death of a friend. Her headscarf, used to bind a wound just like the bed sheets she had utilized when all the bandages ran out. It was like she was still using her magic, her calming hands, even after death.

After death.

The letter had rumbled his very foundations and he felt more thrown by it than any shocks he confronted in war.

His vainest, smallest hope. Renee was alive.

  _Peut-être qu'il entend les prières après tout._

 

* * *

 

That night he dreamt fitfully, violent nightmares tearing his sleep apart. Screaming shells falling on Bastogne, shredding trees and men with equal ferocity. That church, soaked in blood. A candle-lit basement where a too-young replacement cried and begged as he died. Her traiteur hands. He woke, soaked in more sweat than normal even on the hottest nights, his breath ragged and laboured, chest heaving and bile in his throat. Forcing himself up off his small cot-bed, he padded to the kitchen in his underwear and got himself a glass of water. The sun was pink in the sky, implying early morning. He sat at his table once more and began to write another letter.  

‘ _Chère_ Renee,

 _Je ne ai jamais rêvé que tu étais vivant._  I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to say.’

He paused. He never did have a way with words but it was true. There was nothing to write to express how he felt.

‘Please may I come to see you?  I swore to myself I wouldn’t come to Europe again.  _Pour vous, je 'd faire ne importe quoi._

_Chaleureusement,_

Eugene Roe.’

He held his head in his hands at the table until his alarm started to ring for his shift. He licked the envelope, sealed it, and sent it that afternoon. A couple of weeks passed, mostly consisting of tentative wishing and denial. He withdrew even further at work, keeping to himself just like he used to in the foxholes of war. Every woman’s smile and sweet look made his heart ache so severely with thoughts of her. _Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve this._ Still, although telling himself that it was enough that she was alive, he looked desperately for a new letter every day, sick with anticipation.

Another letter arrived.  He tore it open furiously. It was short, too short, her pretty writing only forming a couple lines. 

‘ _Cher_ Eugene,

I do not think that’s a good idea.

_Je suis désolé._

Renee.’

Eugene put the letter down, folded it up and inserted it back into the envelope. He took it to the drawer near his bed where he kept the other letter. He put his boots back on and walked out of the door, took the short trip to the small main street nearby and purchased another pack of smokes and a bottle of whisky. He then returned home. He promised himself he wouldn’t write again.

_Leave her be, let her enjoy her life. Maybe she can be happy now._

_You barely knew her. Just fleeting moments at the worst of times._

_What makes you think…_

He’s a weak man.

Head pulsing with the remnants of a wicked hangover, he writes again. He intends this to be the last letter. 

‘ _Chère_ Renee,

I’m sorry for my rudeness in my last letter. It was _impoli_ to ask such a question. I truly hope that you are well and life after the war is good to you. I will not attempt contact again.'

He remembers the soothing way she spoke to the men she cared for, her careful determination. The sorrow that soaked though as they sat outside the hospital and the gift she cursed for cruelty. Her understanding of the burden of his role. The look in her eyes when they stared at each other over the body of a man that even together they could not save.  

‘I know in my first letter I expressed how much your kindness meant _._ _Ce était pour votre famille_ , I should like to tell you directly.  You denied your gift but _vous me avez sauvé._ I can never repay what you have done.

_Vous êtes la plus belle personne que je ai jamais vu._

Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to show my gratitude.

I will always remember you.

_Cordialement à vous,_

Eugene Roe.'

He went to his drawer and withdrew all the francs that he had saved whilst in Europe and added them to the letter, not bothering to count the amount, just hoping it would be enough.  He sealed his words away before he could change his mind and went straight to bed, sleep still infected with the horrors of war.

 

* * *

 

A month passed and Eugene tried not to think about it at all. He saw his mother and didn’t mention anything, although she noticed that he seemed especially unhappy and he tried to dissuade her with tight little smiles. She asked if he had been courting anyone, whether he’d met with any of his old girlfriends. All he could do was shake his head and look at his hands, lying flat and upturned in his lap. She soon dropped the subject. He went to church and prayed fervently. He thanked God for allowing her to live, and he prayed for this to continue indefinitely. He could fall down dead for all he cared, as long as she could be living and happy.  He slept uneasily and dreamed of a bone chilling cold.

He worked, smoked cigarettes on the porch after sundown, wrote to some of the boys from Easy, forming a tentative friendship that wasn’t always possible during the war and not mentioning anything in particular. He drank a little more than he should and seldom spoke to anyone. He stared out onto the bayou as the light faded.  He thought he just needed a little more time, then he’d try to live a normal life again and pretend the war never happened, like the rest of the world. Just a little more time.

Day off. He never dressed for company, only wore an old tee shirt and pants, no shoes. In the distance he heard the rumble of a car approaching, a disconcerting noise as he was expecting no visitors and he certainly wasn’t prepared for them. The car stopped and he heard the door open, a passenger disembark. He scowled.

A knock at the door, almost inevitable but still wholly miraculous.  


* * *

  
  
“Why have you come here?”  
  
“I came to help.”

 

* * *

  
Her touch still calms, even though one of her sleeves is empty past the elbow. She speaks French to the shopkeeper, charms the local kids, gets a job as a waitress in the café in town, kisses Eugene on the head every morning before he goes to work. She laughs a lot.  
  
She had been ashamed, unsure whether the scar on the side of her body and the hand that she lost to Bastogne would turn him away. He, who so admired her hands. Renee told him she had cried when she wrote that letter, the one that told him not to come. Didn’t he notice the blurred ink, the rippling of the paper?  
  
The drawer where he kept Renee’s letters is a lot fuller now, with pictures of her family and letters from men both European and American thanking her for her work. The letters from the men of Easy Company, which are addressed ‘Doc’ and occasionally ‘Doc and Nurse’, although neither of them will treat a wound again. They’re often full of shocking tales and joking profanity that he tries to hide from Renee but when she reads them she just laughs, too used to rough soldiers humour to be scandalized. Her French bible. Eugene also keeps her little drawings, sweet sketches of his profile and the surrounding alien nature. With his letters, wrapped up with string, are the notes she sometimes leaves for him. He has a photograph of her in his wallet.  
  
Things are still not always great but they do their best. Despair and memories can make him sink to his knees but she is there, holding his head on her lap. Her ghosts haunt her too with unexplained tears that he wipes away. When his dreams turn bad he wakes to feel her palm on his back, soothing distress. When she panics in the night, he holds her close until her shaking subsides. They know they will probably never be fully cured of their lingering trauma but they help each other any way they can.  
  
On better nights they exchange kisses and jokes, stay up all night speaking in hushed French and seeking out the others eyes in the dark. Sometimes they spend whole days in bed, only getting up for coffee and food. She wears a french slip made of real silk when she sleeps.  
  
She came to America for him, leaving the cold of Belgium behind forever because she knew he needed her and she needed to start again. He thinks that finally he can give her something in return for everything she has given. She is the most beautiful woman who ever existed.

 

 

* * *

  
  
‘Dear Gene,  
  
Hey, pal! Writing to say thanks for the invite, Bill and I got back to Philly in one piece (well, almost for Bill ha ha ha!). We had a great time in Louisiana but boy, it is too damn hot down your way! How do you stand it? You better make sure that girl of yours keeps cool. Get her an icebox or something.  
  
We’re all really happy for you. Hope you know that. Glad that something good came out of all of it, ya’know? Skinny says he’s very jealous and if he didn’t like you as much he would have stolen her. We all think he’s very full of himself!  
  
Tell Mrs Roe – J’adore!  
  
Impressive, right? That’s a couple years in Europe for ya.  
  
See you soon,  
  
Your friend Babe.  
  
P.S. You ‘aint even gonna read this are you? Write back in a couple weeks time after the honeymoon’s over.’

**Author's Note:**

> Hope the french is okay! 
> 
>  
> 
> [partly inspired by this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDXz8PpGw1U&spfreload=10)


End file.
